Ramblings #16 - Myopic Melodies

I don’t remember when first my eyesight started failing me.

Never a front bencher, I was forced to come up to the board just to see the words stop being just white squiggles. It’s hard to not see the blurred world around you and be mystified. Was it always this way? Did my eyes lie so far, and now only I see the truth?

Perspective is a cruel thing, and yet so humane it’s ingrained in everything we do. And when I meet someone I can share perspectives with, it’s such a wonderful feeling. Celebrating differences is excellent and broadens a narrow mind, but there is an orgasmic connection that forms between two souls bound by the same taste.

And what if that division was between you and yourself? I used to love certain things in school that are no more a certain joy – a sadness does perpetuate through my cerebellum as memories collapse on each other like waves, but the water is cold and unwelcoming now. I would rather never go to the beach again than fear the drowning through confused thrashing in those past recollections.

Sometimes you do forget how to swim.

I went through a lot of glasses when I was young, finding new and sadistic ways to corrupt the frames that gave me vision. While there has been more permanence in recent tidings, I still do wonder. What am I without my glasses?

And more frightening – what am I with them? Am I limited through my settled sight, a marvel of engineering and thought, but one that forces my vision to be unidirectional? I do love my glasses as I have come to love things that are now a part of my identity, a part of myself.

Glasses let me be a back bencher again and enjoy some of my best moments in school. And they ensured I could see the world again despite my corrupted cornea.

But I do remember quitting football cause wearing glasses was never an option (not that I was much good at it anyway) and suffering from direction carelessness in the pool, while finding inventive yet cumbersome ways to put on 3D glasses for movies. Sometimes, they become a remnant of my physical failure.

But there is love, remember. Always. And I will cherish this mounted piece that sits on my nose proudly, dividing into two strips of plastic majesty that run into my hair, even as it embellishes my disrupted iris into a proper whole. A crown for my visage it becomes.

And push it back to look like I am studying something intently when in reality, I am just reading Hagar the Horrible.